She has no interest
in talking to me anymore.
Like a broken toy,
used, and tossed
onto the floor.
Forgotten and thrown
under the bed;
played with then put away
because to her,
I am dead.

And to the world
I am dead.
I breathe,
but with no purpose.
I do exist,
but without meaning.
I am awake,
yet there's no focus.
And I sleep,
but there is no dreaming.
I am dead.

And she has no interest
in talking to me anymore.
And it's all my fault.
I wish this life
would just grind to a halt.
I destroy everything good
that ever happens to me;
And it's only the sweet promise of death
that can set me free.

I am dead.
Or rather,
I wish  I could be.

Persistence, my friend;
and determination:
can mend
all the wounds of misfortune;
and the the scars of your past.
Your scars and wounds
stand nothing
to time.
For in time, no pain lasts.

So press on
Press on,
like they said in times
where there was no choice
but to press on.
And you have no choice.
for If you don't,
you will very soon be gone.
That's not to be morbid,
and not to be grim,
but you know that as well as I do,
so it's with persistence
you must glow
and with patience
you must brim.

And not to say that you are weak,
but the pain you feel
is nothing unique.
So persist, my friend.
Do not fall with hard times:
Press on and find
the solace
you so sincerely seek.

Stand up
when you feel like you must fall.
Stand up when you cannot stand.
Stand up, anyway;
and stand up tall.
That, my friend, is greatness.
To rise above your own self-doubt.
To rise beyond limits.
To rise above it all.

Persistence, my friend:
Persistence is key;
for until that fog clears up,
you will not see
your limitless potential
and all the infinite beauty
that lies not beyond the horizon,
but just around the bend.
I promise you will find it:
But only with
Persistence, my friend.

In my hotel room,
I pace the floor.
I hold my breath, count to ten:
She's out the door.
Alone again.

A few seconds of silence
feels like forever.
Lighting her cigarette:
Time slows down, stops
when we are together.
So it's too bad  
we blank each other out.
Both invisible.
"Please see me,"
I scream,
I shout.
I am miserable.
And need to feel something.
So on my hand,
I put it out.

And it left a mark.
A reminder.
That I could never
and didn't deserve
to find her.
To hear her words,
be in her thoughts,
to feel her touch,
to walk her floors.
Or to enter her house,
to open her doors.
To be washed up,
from the rough seas,
to safety on her shores.

Her city's wine was bitter
but sweet.
Under the darkness
and under bed sheets.
I felt a warm breath,
smooth,
Alive:
My haven.
My sweet retreat.
And heaven it was
hearing her heart beat.
Reassuring me
that she was there.
That she might feel something too.
That she might care.

And that wine:
Sweet but bitter.
A cruel mistress.
Covered in glitter,
glowing and shining
under bright neon lights,
dancing,
intoxicated,
high like a kite;
foggy of thought,
fading,
leaving,
disappearing
and gone
into the night.

And if you're reading this,
and you might:
Say something sweet,
Please say that I just
misunderstood
and that it's all alright.
Or say nothing at all
Don't raise me up
or bring me down
with your words,
your call.

But sometimes I stop and wonder:
Do you remember me at all?
I hope not.
I hope you don't recall.
It's best if you forgot.

Yes, it's best if you forget
the time you let
me hold you and pet
you, cold in the room
where we were warm,
with the window wide open,
smoke seeping out
from your cigarette.
We weren't supposed to smoke in there.
Something you'd regret.
But they cleaned our ashtray, anyway.
Nobody seemed to care.

You never seemed to care.

Opening the door, ready to leave,
you gave me a look
I could not believe
Did I ever meet you?
Was it all but a dream?
Am I now awake?
Is my life now seen?

You closed the door and became a stranger
and from that point on,
like seeing baby Jesus in his manger,
I knew the end of this story.
"No love,
no glory."
Crucified and all I got was this T-shirt.
I feel your pain, Jesus,
I feel your hurt.

Well,
I suppose I shouldn't look back
but it's quite hard
to put these memories aside,
to discard.
And to write rhymes
knowing full well,
like some hopeless, unfunny
drunk Irish bard:
That she's no longer mine.
She was never mine.
And I can't get over it.
Can you tell?

And can you tell:
That every unconscious breath
causes pain,
and every conscious thought
causes hell?
That I climbed up
into the lofty heights of my hopes,
that I climbed too high,
that I slipped,
and I fell?

And I am still falling
Her name,
I keep calling.
As I continue to fall.
Falling.
The taste still lingering.
Falling
and forgetting it all.

I lay there, still.
Frozen.
Trapped again in the prison of my thoughts.
Paralysed on the bed.
Trapped once again.
Scenes spiraling in my head.

The image is etched into my mind,
carved coldly when i close my eyes
and like closing your eyes
after staring at the sun:
it wont go, it has just begun
to hurt.
This is no fun.

Trapped in the prison of my mind.
The prison of my room.
Of my house,
my life,
Her face,
voice,
singing,
talking,
touch,
touching,
taste,
tast­ing,
tingling,
Trapped.

Locked with the key thrown away.
Locked to my self,
alone.
Tomorrow and every day
Why?
I can't say.

And the pain,
Like a sliced vein:
It won't stop.
And its killing me slowly
as I call her name,
she doesn't answer.
She will never answer.
Never again.

Well, there are other girls;
It's not the end of the world,
I say to myself.
I will get over it in a while,
I say,
so I can half-fake a smile.
So I can fake it through another day.
I don't really need her,
I say,
bleeding and aching.
I'm fine.
I'm okay,
I say,
**I'm okay.